


So if you don't mind, I'll walk that line

by silentghosts



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, World Junior Hockey Championship, hinted overdose, minor mentions of actual players from the 2008 and 2009 line ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentghosts/pseuds/silentghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent and Jack play each other at World Juniors in 2008 and then again in 2009.</p><p>A story about winning, losing and coming to terms with what really matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So if you don't mind, I'll walk that line

**Author's Note:**

> Title from - Talk me Down by Troye Sivan
> 
> This story has been kicking around in my brain for a while now, and after looking up the stats a week or two ago I couldn't not write it.
> 
> Thanks to Idril for allowing me to try and break her heart on a regular basis and for pulling this all together when I could barley see straight anymore and as always to Kim for always being my biggest cheerleader.

The mood is strange on the plane ride back. Originally, Kent had bargained along with some of the other Americans in the CHL to be allowed on the same plane flight back to Toronto as the Team Canada guys. In hindsight, however, Kent should have thought of this, should have thought of what it would feel like to be drowning in crushing despair while just rows in front of him Jack was practically radiating joy, the ribbon of his gold medal peeking out from under his collar as he laughed at something _Johnny_ said.

Luckily, Kent has had years of practice at not letting crushing disappointment show, and, well, next year--next year, Jack will be in the show, and Kent will get his chance to carve it up on international ice.

For now, he just jams his headphones in, balls his team USA sweatshirt up to use as a pillow and tries his best to sleep away some if not all of the twelve hours flight back to Toronto.

 

.

 

Four hours into the flight, Kent wakes up, his ears ringing as the plane battles another bout of turbulence. His leg is cramping from where he has been curling it up under his body and there is a now cold airplane meal in front of him, indicating he probably missed dinner. Glancing around the plane, he could see Bobby and Monty still in their Team USA sweatshirt curled together against the far windows, while Team Canada seemed to have sprawled out from the tight bunch they were huddled in earlier.

In the seat across the aisle from Kent, sprawled out with one leg practically on the floor, his head dangling backwards at an angle that is going to hurt when he wakes up, and a hand clutching at the center of his shirt where Kent knew the gold medal rests is Jack. Squashing down the warm feelings rising in his chest, Kent leans across to nudge Jack's shoulder until his eyes crack open, darting around as they take in their surroundings before setting on Kent.

“Hey.” He smiles softly, stretching his hand out from under his body to catch Kent's retreating arm, his fingers stretching easily around Kent's wrist, and Jack pulls him forward, eyes still light and playful in the aftermath of yesterday's game.

“You doing okay?” Jack asks, their faces now only inches apart, with the way Kent is leaning awkwardly across the aisle, body supported by only the flimsiest grip on the armrest.

“Yeah, like, it would have been nice to do better but--” Kent pauses , trying to work out how to phrase it: _But it would have been nice to win? to medal? to play on a team that actually had a chance?_ “But there is always next year, I suppose?” he settles on, watching the understanding wash over Jack’s face and his grip on Kent's wrist loosen enough that Kent can get away, back to his own corner of the plane where World Juniors don’t exist, and he is simply the Q’s Points Leader, and Jack isn’t sitting across the aisle two seats away, giving him the saddest eyes Kent has ever seen. He doesn’t need _Gold Medal Winning Jack Zimmermann_ asking him if he is okay, but maybe he does need his friend Jack. However, at the moment, Kent isn’t sure if there is really a difference between them.

In the end, it's Jack who breaks the stand off, shuffling across the aisle and nudging Kent until he gives up his window seat. Lifting the armrest between them, Jack pulls Kent back against his chest, the hard edge of the medal digging into his spine, Jack's arms solid and unmoving around him.

“Hey, you’ll do better next year, Kenny. You and Van Riemsdyk were practically the only guys on the ice that entire game. It’s not your fault the rest of your team didn’t show up.” Jack mutters , slowly burying his nose in Kent's hair.

“Yeah, next year.”

 

.

 

At the beginning of May, Jack shocks everyone by announcing that he will not be participating in the 2008 draft.

Four days later, he shocks Kent by pressing a round bottle of pills into his hand and begging him to make sure he takes them. 

In June, Steven Stamkos goes first overall to Tampa Bay while Kent holds Jack on the couch in the Zimmermanns’ rec room, a bottle of pills tucked into his hoodie pocket, his mind whirling at the thought of what should have been.

 

.

 

Kent heads to Boston in mid-December for selection camp. The scene is familiar this year, a mess of wide-eyed seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, all with hopes of suiting up in the red, white and blue come December 26th. Some of the old guard is back as well, Van Riemsdyk prepping for his third appearance on international ice while Kent, Rusty and Jordy are all back for their second shot at the title.

Riemer corners him on the second day of camp, blocking the exit from the rink as Kent goes to leave late after staying back for extra practice.

“You know they’re giving you the C, right?” he calls as Kent bends down to pick up the last puck left over from shooting practice.

“Um, no? Should I?” Kent hasn’t heard anything about it; sure, there has been some whispering about them doing away with the team of As they had used the year before, but he assumed that the C would be going to Riemer or one of the older D-men like Cole. Kent has never even considered wearing a letter this year; he was barely seventeen , was second youngest guy at the camp, for _fuck’s_ _sake_ , why the hell would they give him _the C._

“Probably not, but I heard Ron talking about it with the ACs yesterday, and it looks like they are going to announce with the final roster tomorrow.” He pauses for a moment, turning back towards the tunnel, motioning for Kent to walk with him. “Anyway, figured I should give you the heads-up, eh? After all, it's not everyday you get named Captain America.”

Kent chuckles nervously as they move down the tunnel, suddenly wondering if this fear that is bubbling up inside his chest, choking him from the inside out is what Zimms feels all the time.

 

.

 

Kent gets given the C on Monday morning; two hours later, Team Canada releases the most stupid series of videos known to junior hockey. Kent would know. He’s watched them six times.

The videos aren’t much, really, badly edited and cringe-worthy as the guys explain a hockey skill each: Tavares explains the dangle, PK does backwards crossovers and _fucking Jack_ shows off his one-timer.

It's not that Kent wants a crappy video of him explaining how to ‘shoot from the wing’ on the internet for the rest of eternity, but even just watching the videos, he can’t help but be a tiny bit jealous. Of Jack, of his team, and the fact that he actually seems to be having fucking fun, not holed up in a hotel room watching crappy videos of the other team at 3pm in the afternoon.

He wants to text Jack, saying, _I miss you,_ and, _can I come by your room tonight_ , and, _I keep looking for you on the ice and you’re not there_ ; instead, he texts him, _nice one-timer asshole_ , plugs his phone into charge and goes off to drown himself in the shower. After all, no one has ever called Kent mature.

 

.

 

It’s Wednesday night before Jack texts back, and Kent's not sulking, really. He may have checked his phone at least once an hour, but he also found the time to own Jordy and Rusty at air hockey, so it’s not like he was sitting around moping.

 

**Jack**

_Any chance you can sneak out?_

 

**Kent**

_Maybe? Like im in the rec room with they guys but i can probs escape?_

 

**Jack**

_Room 190_

_my roommate is staying with his family tonight, so they can spend christmas morning together._

 

The snow is everywhere when Kent dashes across the road to the Team Canada hotel, pulling his winter coat on tighter. As he makes his way towards Jack's room, his Team USA shirt feels like condemning evidence as he knocks on Jack's door, Christmas music playing somewhere down the hallway.

Ten minutes later, he’s pressed into the pillows, his hands pinned above his head as Jack peppers light kisses down his chest. That night, he falls to sleep cradled in Jack's arms, a maple leaf on his chest, and Zimmermann plastered across his back.

Christmas morning, he wakes up to the sound of Jack talking softly in French as he smooths a hand across Kent's cowlick. Kent doesn’t pick up much, far too sleepy to deal with translating the words beyond _Papa_ and _joyeux Noël_ , the hands combing his hair stilling for a second.

“Shh, go back to sleep, Kenny, it's still early,” Jack whispers before resuming his ministrations, lulling Kent back to sleep, the soft sound of his voice in his ears.

 

.

 

He sneaks back across the road later that morning. Jack has lunch with his parents to go to, and, well, his roommate is due to arrive back anytime soon, and he can’t find the captain of the American team sitting on the bed across from his, wearing nothing but a Zimmermann jersey. Jordy takes one look at him when he arrives back at their room, at his hair in disarray, at the Oceanic shirt he liberated from Jack's suitcase, shakes his head and promptly throws a wrapped-up package at his face.

“Merry Christmas, you dick, I don’t even want to know where you went last night, you ass.”

Kent grins, a smirk on his face as he falls backwards onto the bed, scrambling to get the package open. A strangled laugh escapes his mouth at the sight of a pair of maple leaf socks. 

“Maybe don’t sneak into Team Canada’s hotel next time, Kenny, or just be careful, okay. We can’t have the press catching wind of Captain America sneaking off behind enemy lines.” He laughs, the tension in the room diffusing as Kent's mind reels at the idea that Jordy knows. He knows and he is fine with it, and he got Kent _fucking maple leaf socks._

“Thanks, Jords, but I promise I’m not transferring allegiance anytime soon, you’re fucking stuck with me, you ass.”

 

.

 

Boxing Day, Kent takes to the ice, a C on his chest and hopes and dreams of a nation on his shoulders. This is _his_ year, this is _their_ year, and no one is going to stand in their way.

 

.

 

They win 12-0 over Kazakhstan before falling 10-6 to Canada in what Kent can only describe as a _shit storm_ of a game, the media after viciously tearing apart every little mistake that they made of the ice. The crowd around Kent’s stall is so thick that he can barely see Jordy next to him; instead, there’s just a sea of microphones and cameras.

“I think we played well. Playing against a team that has the roster depth that Canada has is always difficult, but hopefully, if all things go according to plan, we will meet them again in the final.” Kent pauses, watching it all sink in; this was Team USA who weren’t giving up on the gold just because Canada beat them in the heats. _US hockey is do or die, baby_ , Kent thinks as he turns to the next reporter _._

“Your linemate from Rimouski, Zimmermann, put up a hat trick tonight for Canada tonight, and lots of people have been saying that when you play together, it's magic, but against each other, it's mayhem. What would you have to say in response to people saying that you’re not playing as well without him?” Kent freezes for a second. Of course they noticed that his passes weren’t quite connecting, that the _Parse-Zimmermann No-Look One-Timer_ only works when you’re playing on the same team, of course they noticed that Kent was fucking lost out there without Jack.

Kent forces a smiles and fumbles some answer about new teammates and great players.

His hands are shaking.

The choking suffocation returns, fear flooding his veins as he sucks in a ragged breath, the C on his chest suddenly an unbearable weight as he fights not to crumble under the pressure of it.

 

.

 

Not long after the game, someone from Team Canada decides that the perfect way to ring in the New Year is to cram as many junior hockey players as they can into one hotel room. Personally, Kent  suspects that it was PK and Johnny. Hours later, crammed into someone's room, a drink in his hand, and his body pressed against Jack's--well, Kent really couldn’t care less about who came up with the idea in the first place.

“Hey, it’s like ten minutes until midnight. Do you want to head out?” Jack murmurs, his hand clutching the back of Kent's shirt as his lips brush over his ear. Kent tried to be angry at Jack already, angry at the beautiful top shelf glove side goal that marked the changing of the tides for Team Canada, angry that he was on the team of dreams while Kent was stuck with _the best America had to offer,_ but right now all he can think of is how much he wants Jack's lips against his, how much he wants to get away.

“Stairwell, two minutes. See you there, Zimms.” Kent smirks , tapping him on the ass and moving away, weaving into a conversation with Reimer about his fucking beautiful goal against the Czech Republic earlier that week, and by the time he makes it to the door, Jack is nowhere to be seen.

 

.

 

The kiss is biting, angry, and as the cold metal of the stairwell railing digs into Kent's back, he gives it as good as he’s got, nipping on on side of Jack’s lip before soothing it with his tongue. Here, in the stairwell, with everything muted through the fire doors, all of Kent's leftover anger from the game bubbles up again--the anger at himself, the anger at his team, the anger at Jack, as he pushes forward, slamming Jack again the opposite wall, the sound of his back thudding against the concrete, echoing around the space.

“Hey, nice goal today,” Jack murmurs, drawing back, their breath misting between them in the cold of the fire escape.

Kent just responds by pushing in further, crowding Jack against the wall, his hand clutching desperately at Jack's hair in an attempt to think of _anything_ other than that day's game.

“Hey, Kenny,” Jack whispered, punctuating it with a sharp bite to the lip, the coppery taste of blood flooding Kent's mouth as his pulls back, furious as his eyes meet Jack's. “You know it's not your fault, right? You know that you did everything you could out there.” His voice shifts to pleading as his hands run along Kent's side, coming to rest together at the small of his back.

“Do I, though? All I know is that I have this fucking C and everything. Fucking everyone today was asking why I’m not playing as well as you.” Kent bites back, pulling away from Jack. “If you want me to feel like it’s not my fucking fault, then maybe don’t score a fucking hat trick against me sometime, because I could see that last goal coming from the blue line and I wasn’t fast enough to fucking stop you. So don’t tell me I did everything I could, because I could have stopped you and I didn’t.”

As Jack's face is frozen in shock, his hands visibly shaking. Kent feels his stomach sink, bile rising up in his throat as he makes a move to step forward, to comfort Jack in spite of all he just said.  

“Don’t, Parse, you fucking said enough,” he chokes out, stumbling to the door, leaving Kent alone in the stairwell, his own words still ringing in his ears and the taste of blood on his tongue.

 

.

 

Two days later, they lose to Slovakia by two in the quarters. Kent doesn’t score at all and Jack still doesn’t call. As the National Anthem of Slovakia plays, Kent finds himself fighting back tears, poking at the scab on the inside of his lip until it breaks, the taste of cooper flooding his mouth again.

In the locker room, he goes around to each of the guys, muttering words of encouragement as he goes; it's over, but not really, not when they still have 5th place to play for. He talks to the new guys first, to Johnson and Kirsto, reminding them that there is always next year, that they have another shot. He doesn’t get to say we, everyone knows what's happening, that next year, regardless of the result, he is not going to get another chance, that this was it for Kent.   

With Thomas, he just bumps their foreheads together, both of their helmets still on, neither of them willing to face what undressing means yet. None of it is his fault. He fucking stood on his head for them in them in the third as they frantically tried to match the difference, and the goal that sealed the deal was scrappy as hell.

“Go, Cap, your boys are waiting,” he mutters, gesturing to the other side of the room, where Riemer, Jordy and Rusty are waiting, all of them looking as defeated as Kent feels.

They wrap each other up in a hug, the weight of the past couple of days finally crashing down on Kent, tears springing to his eyes as he pulls them close.

 

.

 

They beat the Czech Republic in overtime on Sunday. Kent scores the game winning goal. Jack still hasn’t called.

 

.

 

That night he gets a text message from Jack’s phone, not from Jack but from his roommate, some guy by the name of Jamie that Kent thinks might be on their fourth line.

Five minutes later, he is jogging across the road, Rimouski sweater haphazardly pulled on, his hand clutching the bottle of pills in his pocket.

Jack is curled up against the headboard when he gets there, his roommate opening the door for him with a panicked look on his face before fleeing down the hallway. Crossing the room, Kent holds out the two pills like a peace offering, breathing a sigh of relief when Jack shakes his head, indicating to the spot next to him instead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and in that moment it's enough, it's _I miss you_ and _I need you_ and _I love you_ all at once, and despite the weight that had been sitting on his shoulders since the final buzzer sounded, Kent can feel his heart growing. Kent loves winning and he loves hockey, but above all else, he loves Jack, and as long as he has him, then everything will be just fine.

He wiggles in behind Jack, his front pressed against his back, his hands resting where Kent just knows tomorrow there will be another gold medal, and just holds him--holds him close, with his nose buried in his hair until his breathing evens out and his hands stop shaking.

“I love you.” he finally whispers, the air around them still. Kent’s not even sure if Jack’s awake, if he even heard, but even so, Jack has shown him that enough tonight. He chose Kent over the pills, let Kent in instead of locking himself in the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach as anxiety burned through his chest, let Kent hold his shaking hands and curl himself around his body, and for now, that was enough.

 

.

 

The next day Canada wins gold, and Jack goes home with a gold medal, a World Championship Ring and the Most Valuable Player award.

In May, they win the Memorial Cup together, Jack handing it off to Kent at center ice, both of them fighting not to kiss each other, the eyes of the world on them.

On June 25th, Jack takes the pills when Kent holds them out like an offering, late in the evening the night before the draft, when Jack can’t stop shaking no matter how long Kent holds him.

On June 26th, Kent wakes up to find light spilling out from the bathroom, the door locked.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr @[jlzimmermann](www.jlzimmermann.tumblr.com)
> 
> [The most embarrassing videos ever known to junior hockey ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmGFwR3BiiY&list=PL88CC3C54405CBB07)


End file.
